


Reconstruction

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, First Time, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-21
Updated: 2010-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-03 11:09:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8710237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: In the aftermath of John's death, Sam feels like he's losing his brother, too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** After I posted _Hard Bargain_ , I got a few requests to write another DomSam/SubDean fic. One reader asked for DomSam (bottom) and SubDean (top). This is what I came up with. Special thanks to SylvanWitch for the initial beta and for suggesting I set this scene in S2. Most of this fic was rewritten post-beta, so any remaining mistakes really are my fault, even more so than usual. For those who have been asking about this story, my apologies for taking so long to finish it. Thanks for being patient.
> 
> Spoilers: Season 2 - _Everybody Loves a Clown._  
>  Disclaimer: I own nothing here. All characters belong to their respective creators. I make no money from this and no copyright infringement is intended.

***

reconstruct: to construct again: as a: to establish or reassemble again b: to build up again mentally. 

 

*

“I’m not alright, not at all,” Sam peered at his brother for a long moment, measuring his next words carefully before he finally added, “but neither are you.” If nothing else, he’d expected some half-assed wisecrack or maybe even a tersely-muttered “Fuck off.” Dean’s eyes darkened with anger, but otherwise the declaration went unchallenged. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Sam sighed. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

 

*

The blows rang out, a solid, steady rhythm of metal on metal that made Sam’s teeth ache as he walked away. By the time he’d set foot on Bobby’s porch, Sam knew he was going back to Dean; as he pushed through the screen door, he knew what he might have to do when he got there.

 

*

“That gate back there got a key?” Sam appeared in the dark kitchen, the smell of heat and sweat announcing his presence even before the screen door slammed behind him. Bobby, who’d been hunched over a stack of newspapers, looked up, frowning at the sudden and apparently unwelcome interruption. “What?”

 

“The fence to the salvage yard,” Sam said impatiently, turning to rifle through the keys Bobby kept hanging on numbered hooks by the door. “Where’s the key?”

 

Bobby took a sip of his coffee, peered into his cup with a disapproving glare, then set the mug down with a solid clunk, pushing it away for good measure. “Why?” 

 

Sam slipped the keys to the Camaro off their hook – number sixteen – tossed them on the table, then resumed his search.

 

“Slow down, kid. What’s going-”

 

“Damn it, Bobby, _which_ one?” He was sorry for his tone, but had too much riding on his plan to worry about hurting the old man’s feelings.

 

“Four. Number Four.” Sam heard Bobby’s chair scrape across the floor as he pushed it back, stood up. Sam pulled the rusted old key off the hook and slipped it in his pocket.

 

“Somethin’ you wanna tell me?”

 

Sam went to the refrigerator, opened it, pulled out two bottles of Miller Lite. The cold glass felt good in his hands.

 

The floorboards squeaked as Bobby rounded the table. “Son?” The young hunter suddenly felt a warm, firm hand on his shoulder. Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam thought of all the times he’d needed his father to reach out to him like this, all the times Dean had needed it, too. Maybe if John had tried a little more, hell, maybe if they’d all tried a little, things wouldn’t have turned out like this. Opening his eyes, he turned, peered out the screen door into the dusty yard, through the fence at the small figure in the distance. He sighed. Sam had spent most of his life blaming John for a lot of things, and now Bobby’s touch seemed to be inviting him to unburden himself. He was grateful, but drew away nonetheless.

 

_Dean first_ , he thought, walking toward the door.

 

“Sam…”

 

Taking both beer bottles in one hand, Sam reached into his pocket, tossed a twenty dollar bill on the table next to the car keys. “You’re out of beer.”

 

“If you’re askin’ me to leave my own house, the least I deserve is an explanation.”

 

“The Camaro’s the only running car, right?”

 

Bobby grunted. “Since you two geniuses had to ditch the mini-van, yeah.”

 

“If you leave, Dean can’t.” 

 

“ _That’s_ your explanation for sending me on a beer run? What the hell does that even mean?”

 

“Just what I said. I’m sick of Dean running away every time I try to get him to deal with Dad.”

 

Bobby stepped back a little; by the look on his face, Sam could see he was putting it all together. “So, what? You’re gonna lock him back there in the yard? Then what?”

 

“That’s up to him, I guess.”

 

“ _Okay_ ,” the old man said slowly. “I’ll pretend that’s not completely insane and ask you this: Are you new around here? You know he could pick that lock in about ten seconds, right?”

 

“That’s why you’re taking the car.”

 

“That ‘ain’t gonna keep him from kickin’ your ass.” Sam didn’t answer.

 

“Jesus, you’re _serious_.”

 

“It’s for his own good.”

 

“Now wait just a damn minute. I get you’re worried, but this isn’t right. I know your brother’s been kind of MIA since…since…” Bobby’s expression softened a little as he fumbled through the rest of his sentence. 

 

“Say it, Bobby. Dad _died_.” What Sam wanted to say was, “Since Dad went to Hell,” but even that didn’t quite cover all the guilt and horror his father had left behind.

 

Bobby sighed, pushed his worn brown Craftsman cap back on his head. “Give him some time, Sam, and while you’re at it, take some for yourself.”

 

“Time for _what_? Dean’s been buried under that car for over a week. He won’t talk to me, he won’t talk about any of it, he’s just out there tearing himself apart. I’m not gonna let him do that. Not anymore.”

 

“The world ain’t gonna end if you two take a break, for God’s sake!” 

 

“It’s not the world I’m worried about.”

 

“Christ, Sam-”

 

“I want my brother back!” His sentence was punctuated by the sound of broken glass smashing to the ground in the distance. 

 

Sighing, Bobby slipped the keys and the twenty into his pocket. “You Winchesters,” he muttered. “Damn fools, every last one of ya.” Then, more gently: “I sure hope you know what you’re doin’, kid.” 

 

Sam felt the sweat beading on his skin again as he stepped back into the blistering sun. The beer bottles, gripped firmly in his hand, clinked together as he made his way across the dusty yard. Through the fence, Sam could see his brother leaning against what was left of the Impala. Dean looked up.

 

As Sam approached, he held up the beer bottles. “Truce?”

 

Dean studied him for a moment, looked like he might finally say, “Fuck off,” but only nodded as he pulled his sweat-soaked t-shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Sam came into the yard, closing the gate behind him, locking it when Dean turned to sit down on an old stack of tires. 

Sam handed him one of the bottles. They sat for a few minutes drinking their now-warm beer. 

 

A short time later, the oldest Winchester cleared his throat. “Sam,” he began. “I know you’ve been tryin’ to help, I do, and I appreciate it.” Dean stared down into his bottle now as if he were considering some way to crawl into it. “But I need you to stop.” He picked at the label, tearing it a little at the edges. “There’s nothing you or me or anyone else can do to fix this anyway.”

 

Sam took a long sip of his own beer. “Let’s just enjoy the quiet for a few minutes, okay?”

 

Dean nodded, then glanced over his shoulder in time to see the Camaro disappear down the gravel driveway in a cloud of dust.

 

***

 

Time is a funny thing. Though its pattern is completely predictable, the longer it went on, the less Dean knew what to expect from it. Some days, hell, most days, it seemed an endless and meandering thing bent on lurching forward as slowly as possible.

 

Other days seemed to slip right through his fingers.

 

The morning of John’s death was like that, and if Dean had had a say in it, had known what was coming, he would have done a lot of things differently, starting with telling the yellow-eyed demon what he could do with his fucking deal.

 

In his mind, Dean often replayed that final, heart-breakingly brief conversation with his father. The hairs on the back of his neck had stood up as his dad approached the hospital bed and a sinking feeling in his gut only worsened as John – demon hunter and former Marine – leaned forward to whisper his oldest son’s standing order: Take care of Sam.

 

“You know I will,” he’d answered dutifully. “Dad, you’re scarin’ me.”

 

Even then, at the end, John had managed that measure of reassurance his son had come to depend on when they were about to part ways, but Dean had known it was different, felt it, but didn’t stop his father when he turned and said, “Don’t be scared, son. Everything will be alright.”

 

Now, those words haunted every moment of Dean’s life. 

 

Things weren’t alright.

 

He wasn’t alright.

 

And lately, as time dragged its feet once more, he’d been struggling with the possibility that, without John, he might never be.

 

*

 

They sat quietly for a long time, long enough for Dean to notice the heat had subsided; in the cool breeze, an empty Coke can rolled back and forth lazily a few feet away. The sky was darkening in the distance.

 

When the beer was gone, Dean hauled himself up but didn’t move, just stood there staring at the wreckage of the Impala.

 

Drawing himself up to his full height – four inches taller than his older brother – Sam came to stand in front of Dean. He studied his face for a moment.

 

“What?” Dean asked, frowning.

 

“You’re really gonna make me do it, aren’t you?”

 

Dean’s frown deepened. “Do what?”

 

Thumping his brother lightly on the forehead with his finger, Sam sighed. “Come in there after you.”

 

“Not this again. Look, I told you to leave it alone.”

 

“Yeah, I know what you said. What’s your plan? Stay out here for the rest of your life?”

 

Taking a cloth from his back pocket, Dean wiped the grease from his hands. 

 

“There’s nothing you could’ve done to stop him, you _know_ that.” Sam stepped a little closer. “And Dad wouldn’t have wanted you to waste the chance he gave you by beating yourself up about it.”

 

“You done?”

 

Sam pressed his lips together tightly, looked away. “You stubborn son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered tersely. “I knew getting through to you wouldn’t be easy, but you’re not even _trying_.”

 

When Sam turned his head, Dean found his own gaze wandering to the nape of his brother’s neck, to the spot just below where his dark hair, damp with sweat, clung to his skin. His profile was strong, like their father’s. Quickly, Dean looked down at his own hands, trembling a little now in the folds of the dirty shop rag. 

 

“Let me in.” Sam’s expression softened a little as he fixed his gaze on his brother again. “Let _me_ help _you_ for a change, huh?”

 

“I told you I don’t _need_ it.”

 

Sam scuffed his tennis shoe in the broken glass glinting brightly in the dust. “Yeah, I can see that.” 

 

Sighing, Dean shoved the rag back in his pocket. “What’s it gonna take to shut you up?”

 

“The strong, silent act is getting pretty old, man. I know how you felt about him. I don’t understand-”

 

“You have _no_ idea how I felt about him!”

 

Sam drew back a little but held Dean’s gaze, studied his expression carefully for a full ten seconds before: “I’m not sure I like the way you said that.” 

 

Dean stepped around him, bumped his shoulder as he walked away to lean once again against the Impala. For a long time, Dean stared at the ground. He could feel his brother’s eyes on him, but to Sam’s credit, he remained silent, his statement hanging heavily between them.

 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Dean finally said, partly because it was true, partly to fill the painful silence.

 

“Try me.”

 

“Sam-”

 

“Did something happen…between you and Dad?”

 

“No.”

 

“You sure about that?”

 

“It’s complicated,” Dean said slowly. “All those nights out on the road, month after month, year after year, it gets…lonely.” He swallowed hard, looked away. 

 

_“Jesus,”_ Sam breathed. “Are you saying…Did he-?”

 

“No.”

 

Sam closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose as he whispered, “I can’t believe I’m about to ask you this: Did you _want_ him to?”

 

“No! I…I don’t _know_.” Dean pushed away from the car. “It doesn’t matter. It’s my problem. I don’t think he even knew about it. Anyway, what am I talkin’ to you for? You don’t get what it’s like, really _like_ , living on the road all the time.”

 

Sam’s head snapped up. “You’re kidding me, right? We were both raised by the same man, remember?”

 

“No we _weren’t_!” Dean spat angrily. “You’ve had one foot out the door most of your life and Dad knew it, maybe before you did. I don’t think you realize he let you go a hell of a long time before you left!” 

 

“So, what? You’re pissed because I got out? Because I didn’t wanna keep fighting his _crusade_?”

 

“I’ve got news for you, Sam. _None_ of us wanted it. I had other plans, too, you know.”

 

“Then why didn’t you _do_ something about it?”

 

“Because I’m guessing there were things Dad would’ve rather been doing with his life, too.”

 

Sam let go a derisive bark of laughter. “Okay, I asked for it by coming out here. Go ahead, Dean, say it.”

 

“Look, I’m not complaining, I’m just sayin’.”

 

“Saying what? That I’m selfish for wanting to live my own life? That I abandoned the family? If you’ll recall, it was Dad who told me not to come back.”

 

“Okay, I think that’s enough sharing for one day. Let’s just drop it.” As Dean started to walk away, Sam reached out, grabbing his shoulder firmly, turning him around. 

 

“What are we talkin’ about here? All this time, I kept thinking you were pissed at _him_ for making the deal. For…for…”

 

Dean pulled away. “Seriously, don’t.”

 

He frowned. “If you’ve got a problem with me, I wanna know about it.”

 

“ _Do_ you?” 

 

Sam’s hand dropped slowly to his side. He squared his shoulders. “Yes.”

 

“Okay, you wanna know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking you’re gonna leave again as soon as we gank that yellow-eyed son-of-a-bitch. Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

In the silence, they heard an empty paper cup skitter across the yard. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Broken glass crunched underfoot as he walked away.

 

“Dean, c’mon…”

 

The oldest Winchester turned around at the fence, casting a dark look at the yard like it had somehow betrayed him. “You know, I used to think that one day all this would be over and we’d go back to being a family. No matter how bad things got, in his own way, Dad tried to help me hang onto that.” Then, more to himself he muttered, “I don’t know, maybe I was tryin’ to help him hang onto that, too.”

 

Sam gave a small nod. 

 

“I know he wasn’t perfect, Sam, and yeah, he did ask a lot of us, sometimes too much,” Dean admitted. “He could be an uncompromising, single-minded bastard, but did you ever stop to think that maybe that’s the only reason you and I are still alive?”

 

“It’s not the only reason.” Sam met his brother’s eyes. “You’re a damn good hunter, Dean, and hands down the strongest person I know. You don’t need Dad for anything anymore, and you sure as hell don’t need me.”

 

Dean forced a small smile.

 

“You can make it on your own. Always could.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Dean glanced at the ground, scuffing his boot in the dust. “maybe I don’t want to.” 

 

“Here,” Sam said, digging into his own pocket. “You’ll need-”

 

“Looking for this?” Dean held up the rusted key Sam had commandeered from Bobby. 

 

“You could’ve left any time?” he said quietly.

 

Shaking his head, Dean slipped the key back into his pocket. “That’s your style, not mine.”

 

***

 

Sam’s mind was full of things he didn’t want to know as he watched his brother disappear into Bobby’s house. The cloying heat had returned with a vengeance and Sam stood silently in the middle of the yard wiping sweat from his face with the collar of his t-shirt, deciding whether to pursue Dean further.

 

Something akin to a survival instinct told him to leave things be, and he almost did, until he remembered how hard he’d had to work to get his brother to open up. Sam picked up the empty beer bottles and Dean’s discarded t-shirt and made his way through the gate, which was swinging lethargically now on a rusted, squeaky hinge. As he neared the house, Sam could hear Bobby’s RCA radio warbling through the opening strains of _You Could Be Mine_ and, just below that, an occasional slamming noise followed closely by a loud curse.

 

_Guns n’ Roses_ , Sam sighed. Well, that wasn’t gonna do a damn thing to improve Dean’s mood.

 

Sam set the two empty beer bottles down on the porch, but held on to his brother’s shirt as he opened the door. _Whatever it takes_ , he reminded himself. He could live with what Dean thought of him; there’d be time to fix that later and anyway, maybe he’d earned some of his brother’s contempt. 

 

That was a problem for another day.

 

Right now, he decided, John still had some unfinished business to take care of.

 

*

 

The oldest Winchester heard the screen door slam, but didn’t move from where he stood in the kitchen, staring into the nearly empty refrigerator. He’d already searched through the drawers and behind the few items that stood on the shelves but had come up empty in his hunt for Bobby’s stash of beer. He’d just determined to jimmy the lock on the old man’s whiskey cabinet – he knew the key wasn’t among those on the hook by the door - when he felt heat at his back. 

 

“Don’t start with me, Sam.” 

 

Dean gripped the top of the open door, balancing himself against his brother’s unexpected weight when Sam slipped in right behind and against him.

 

Dean frowned. “You hear me?”

 

When he got no response, he turned to say it again, but was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder. 

 

“I said I’m done talkin’ about this,” he warned. Dean hoped he sounded more confident than he felt, that Sam hadn’t heard the sudden edge of uncertainty in his voice, but he had no way of knowing; as Axel Rose wailed from the radio, all the young hunter was met with was another angry refrain. 

 

They stood like that for what seemed to Dean like a very long time – Dean clutching the top of the open refrigerator door with one hand while bracing the other hard against the front of the freezer, his mind racing for something to say as Sam’s fingers continued to gently press into his bare shoulder. Despite the cool air surrounding him, Dean was aware of heat rising to his cheeks. 

 

“Sam-” 

 

His brother’s grip tightened a little, but he didn’t move, and very slowly, Dean began to understand what was happening.

 

What, it seemed, was being offered.

 

Sam’s hands were moving now, slowly, carefully, allowing time, maybe, for both of them to reconsider. The young man’s arms were wrapping around him and Dean was surprised to find he was allowing it. He did nothing to help at first, but didn’t turn and demand the explanation he knew he should about why Sam was doing this, maybe in part because Sam hadn’t really demanded one from him out in the yard about why he wanted it.

 

Still, Dean opened his mouth to say something he hadn’t thought through yet but fell silent again as Sam’s lips softly grazed his cheek, whispered against his ear things that made the older man’s skin tingle. With the grace and agility Dean would’ve expected, Sam slid his fingers down to the waistband of his brother’s jeans, slipping the button free. 

 

Dean stiffened at this. He wanted to think he was going to put a stop to it now; he was still telling himself he was going to as he reached for Sam’s wrist, but instead of doing what he knew he should – push Sam away and walk out of the room – he finished the job his brother had started by unzipping his own jeans and pulling out his swollen, aching cock.

 

He was still incredulous even as Sam wrapped one large, warm hand around him. “I can’t-”

 

“Shhh...just relax.”

 

“I can’t ask this-” 

 

Sam pressed his wet, open mouth to the back of the older man’s neck. “Who’s asking?”

 

Together, slowly, they began moving. Sam’s stance was wide and he took Dean’s weight, pulling him back to rest against his chest as their fingers entwined, slick now, stroking and pumping, wringing from them both a broken chorus of groans and curses. Dean tensed and struggled through his pleasure as indistinct images formed at the edges of his mind, the border between fantasy and reality rapidly breaking down as he threw his head back against Sam’s collarbone, closed his eyes, pressed his lips together tightly, tried to pretend that he was just jacking himself off, his brother happened to be there, and it didn’t mean anything more than that.

 

And then, in an elusive moment there and gone before he knew what had happened, Dean found himself turning in Sam’s arms, pushing him across the short distance to Bobby’s kitchen table, backing him against it with a dull thud. Trembling, he splayed one hand against the other’s chest. Maybe he’d been about to finally tell Sam off, but he couldn’t remember, couldn’t hold onto anything more than the smell and feel of him; the next thing Dean knew, their mouths came together hard and his fingers were twisting in Sam’s damp t-shirt, running down his back, fumbling with his zipper. 

 

In a delirious haze of heat and need, Dean broke the kiss off with a groan, wiped saliva from his swollen lips with the back of his hand and dropped to his knees. 

 

Sam touched his shoulder, bringing him back. “Easy,” he whispered, but Dean barely heard as he reached for Sam’s cock and swallowed it down, sucking with more desperation than desire. Grunting and graceless, he reached for his own cock, too, stroked and fondled as the head leaked, dripping a steady stream on the floor now, promising a quick release. 

 

“Jesus,” the younger man groaned, cupping the back of Dean’s head. He thrust his hips forward and back - small, controlled movements that forced Dean to slow his blind, headlong plunge into oblivion. When Dean resisted, Sam’s fingers dug gently into his shoulder, steadying him. 

 

Guiding him.

 

Dean’s last self-delusion dissolved then and he was yanked back to fragmented fantasies of his father; to studying John’s face by the light of a single Coleman lantern when Dean thought he wasn’t looking; to feeling his father’s strong, reassuring hands as the older hunter stitched him up after a hunt went bad; to so many winter nights when John wrapped an arm around him in the dark; to all the times John offered a smile and pretended he was trembling from cold, not fear, as something even their worst nightmares couldn’t conjure stalked them in the shadows; to all the sleepless nights and close calls they’d endured together and Dean knew he’d only survived because of his Dad.

 

The familiar scent of sweat, alcohol and motor oil filled Dean’s nose, mixed now with semen, and he barely bit back a sob. Suddenly, this wasn’t Sam giving him a pity fuck; it was John, real and solid before him.

 

And just like that, Dean was on his feet, turning the man in front of him, shoving down worn jeans, bending him over the table, his shoulders straining and aching as he reached between the other’s legs, urgently working him open with two spit-soaked fingers. 

 

And, at the last, when Dean hesitated as he pressed the head of his heavy, swollen cock against Sam’s tight entrance, a steady, knowing voice whispered, “Take what you need, Dean. That’s an order.”

 

The words undid him. Years of unanswered need, of fear and emptiness and what he was coming to believe had always been false hope flooded to the surface in one unstoppable wave after another. He was nearly blind with it as he bit his lip, tasting blood as he breached his brother, taking him hard, and soon they were jouncing the table, vibrations running through the floorboards, rattling the screen door across the room. Bobby’s abandoned coffee cup tipped, crashed to the floor, breaking. Dean’s shirt fell, too, from where Sam had dropped it earlier, followed by page after page of yesterday’s news.

 

For a time, nothing could be heard but grunting and wet sucking noises from between their bodies. Even the radio cut out more than not, broken punctuation for this, their broken communication.

 

In the odd half-light afforded by the still-open refrigerator door and the rapidly graying sky outside, Dean watched Sam’s back tighten and contract, felt him clinching down. Dean was close, too, felt the familiar spreading warmth in his belly as Sam drove back against him. “Fuck, yeah,” the younger man groaned gratefully as Dean reached around to finish him off. The table protested under their combined weight as Dean held his brother down with one hand and pumped him hard with the other, Sam’s cock pulsing hotly against Dean’s calloused fingers, slipping wetly in and out of his firm grip. 

 

“Christ,” Sam bit out, squeezing hard around the swollen flesh inside him. For a second, Dean worried Sam was in pain, started to ask, then heard it: the hitch in his brother’s breathing he’d come to recognize from years of sharing a room. Gripping both sides of the table, Sam tensed, muscles working as he thrust back one last time, shooting his come through Dean’s fingers and across the tabletop. Dean found just enough composure to gentle him through the last of it with another clumsy swipe of his fingers against Sam’s skin before he practically stumbled backward to pull out as his own climax overtook him. Some distant part of his mind knew Sam must be in pain now, but even that realization didn’t make it any easier to slip his throbbing cock from all that warm, welcoming flesh.

 

“Where you think you’re goin’?” Breathing hard, Sam reached back, gripping Dean’s thigh, holding him inside. 

 

“Sam-” 

 

“Finish it.” The young hunter clinched hard around him.“Now.”

 

Not one to disobey an order, Dean answered with a final thrust and groan, clutching Sam’s hips, filling him, falling over the edge to a ragged rhythm of “fuck” and “hell, yeah” as the familiar hum and rattle of the Camaro’s engine grew louder in the distance. If, at the end, Sam had heard Dean choke back their father’s name, he didn’t react and never said so afterward.

 

Sam had just zipped his own jeans and Dean was standing next to the table, rubbing a painful spasm out of his shoulder, frowning, when Bobby opened the screen door. 

Both boys looked up.

 

Bobby was clutching a twelve-pack; Dean noticed his fist tighten around the handle as he surveyed the room: Dean’s damp, threadbare t-shirt – a lost cause all by itself – lay forgotten on the seat of a skewed kitchen chair; yesterday’s newspaper littered the floor, as did the broken pieces of the old man’s cup; cold coffee stained the hardwood next to Sam’s tennis shoes and the table was at least half a foot closer to the far wall, not to mention the refrigerator door was still standing wide open. Dean was hoping it was all enough to distract Bobby from the smell in the room, but he doubted it.

 

“I can explain-” 

 

The old man shot an angry glance at each of the Winchesters.

 

“I started it,” Sam cut in.

 

Bobby gave each of them a long, considering look. “I don’t give a rat’s ass who started it, and don’t try to cover for each other now. I know you i’djuts been fightin’ again and I’m sick of it. Just look at this place!”

 

Dean glanced at Sam, nodded stiffly, then stared down at the floor, muttering something that sounded like an apology. Sam took the twelve-pack from Bobby and, on his way to the refrigerator, covertly swiped Dean’s shirt from the chair Bobby dropped into. 

 

A short time later, when the room was back in order and Bobby was hunched over the table gluing his coffee cup together, the Winchester boys stood around awkwardly; Sam by the kitchen counter, Dean near the screen door. The room was so silent Dean was convinced both men could hear his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to avoid meeting Sam’s eyes.

 

When the last piece was in place, Bobby set the cup down carefully; the table wobbled a little. He frowned, then turned around in his chair, leveling a hard look at the brothers that easily rivaled any John had ever used on them.

 

“Dean, you still have some work to do, don’t you?”

 

When the boys looked at each other, clearly confused, Bobby clarified. “The car.” The old hunter was clearly waiting for something; suddenly, Dean got it.

 

“Sam,” Dean said quietly, pushing back images of his brother, naked and writhing beneath him just moments before. “You wanna give me a hand outside?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Bobby nodded, turning back toward the table. “I’ll be along shortly. You guys think you can keep your hands off each other for a few minutes?”

 

They didn’t answer, Sam just pushed away from the counter and joined Dean by the door. As they turned to leave, Bobby added, “You two okay?”

 

Dean hesitated, studying Sam’s face for a long moment. “Yeah,” he finally said. “We’re good.” 

 

*

They worked through the late afternoon, until the light faded into shadow and they moved silently among each other like ghostly silhouettes against the darkening sky. Around nine o’clock, hot, dirty and exhausted, the three hunters trudged back to the house, sitting down to a meal of cold pizza and beer. Bobby had turned the police scanner on, and occasionally it crackled to life as they pushed their food around on their plates. Maybe the reports coming in weren’t really their kind of jobs, but Dean suspected the old man just didn’t think they were ready to go back to work yet.

 

John would have sent them, Dean knew. He’d have given them what passed for a pep talk among the Winchester men, inspecting their weapons as they packed them in the pick-up, then they’d have piled into the cab to speed off into the night, their own troubles pushed aside once more, heartbroken heroes all. 

 

He’d have sent them, and he’d have been wrong.

 

*

 

Later, when the house was dark and quiet, Dean stood in the narrow light of Sam’s half-open bedroom door, watching the shadows play along the hard lines and planes of his brother’s back. Sam was drying his hair with one towel as another, slung low around his hips, threatened to fall to the floor. Quietly, Dean watched, eyes glazing over with fevered memory and the stirrings of need. Sam dropped the towel in his hand.

 

Without turning around, he said, “Something I can do for you, Dean?”

 

Dean licked his lips, started to back away. He was going to deny it, say he’d just been passing by, so what if he happened to be looking, but Sam turned then, eyes steady as he faced his brother, the folds of the remaining towel parted now by his hard, swollen cock.

 

Dean’s denials fell away, the look on his face putting the lie to them anyway.

 

As Bobby slept off a fifth of whiskey, mumbling to his own ghosts just down the hall, Dean stepped into his brother’s bedroom, closing the door behind him.

 

*


End file.
